Green Eyes
by feryvancy
Summary: Diners are an excellent place to start a romance.


**AN: **Title's from Green Eyes by Wavves. Tweek's sixteen (going on seventeen) and Craig's twenty-one, if that squicks anyone out. There's no… _action_ but still. Ten points to the house of whoever recognizes the quotes in the following fic.

There may be more of this story, I don't know.

* * *

**Call Me Maybe  
**

Outside, it's gotten to the point the air freezes your lungs every time you inhale. The snow has been trampled to slush; it seeps onto your jeans and down into your socks (_somehow_) if you're not wearing the right boots. Winter has been in South Park for two months, which is two months past its welcome. There's ice and an infinite amount of colds packed into every breath I take in_. _I feel like I should be hibernating under a pile of blankets with a stockpile of coffee. The coffee would probably be contradictory to the whole hibernating thing, but everything about winter is contradictory to my wellbeing. Someday I will live where snow is nothing more than a Hollywood myth.

School's out for two weeks now, though, so that's good. It's my third year taking them, and midterms are still kicking my ass in. The aftershocks are still sparking down my spine, tightening my muscles and rolling my stomach with the certainty that _this_ is the year that I have failed everything, sending my future into a tailspin.

It's ten in the morning, which seems like a ridiculous time to be released from school. The diner I'm in is still handing out its breakfast menus. White tile and wood paneling cover every surface, serving as some sort of unholy mixture between the weird uncle's house and our high school's cafeteria, only with better food and a lowered chance of cannibalism. I'm leaning against the wall, head resting against the window sill. I can feel the cold seeping in and my never ending hatred increases. Kenny's to my right, head on the table and fast asleep. Our legs are pressed together under the table, which is the consequence of trying desperately to find a decent position to dose in more than any sort of true affection. Across from us Kyle and Stan are apparently completely awake, debating some sort of social dogma that had been stirred up again recently. Overly aware fuckers.

Our waiter slinks back over. I try very hard to look like the most attractive slumping lump of a high schooler to have ever existed on this metal earth. Still isn't all that attractive, but whatever. The waiter's a tall dude who introduced himself as Craig the first time I saw him, but now he's Patrick Bateman (this made me choke on my gum, but then he smiled at me with a grin that took up his entire face so it was worth it.) Craig has a long, narrow, pointy face that takes some dedicated staring to morph into beauty, but once you do there's no coming back. He's skinny but has filled in past his gawky stage, and now he just sort of _glides_ everywhere. He gets bored of introducing himself correctly after six days.

I'm not completely convinced he doesn't have Heelys.

He comes to the head of our tables and says, "You want another mug?"

I glance around the table. Kenny's still asleep and the Super Best Butt Buddies have frozen mid-sentence. It occurs to me halfway through my second sweep that he has to be talking to me because my coffee addiction and I are the only ones with a mug of anything. This sends me straight into the anxious deer-in-headlights state.

"It's a fresh pot," he hums, eyebrows wiggling majestically. He's smiling at me again, nothing more than a twitch in his cheek and holy Christ, the man has dimples. God, have mercy.

I look down at my grimy, definitely not fresh, half gone mug. I debate the pros and cons of saying yes before remembering there are no cons and reply, "Frick yes." I couldn't be less seductive if I tried. It's not my fault, honestly. Craig makes my brain spark in ways that are conductive to nothing more than completely frying any and all control I may have had at some point in my life.

But he keeps smiling. Our fingers brush during the transaction. It doesn't exactly set my whole body on fire, but I am suddenly very aware of aforementioned fingers' existence. I briefly consider switching up my hands in later personal activities.

Once he's glided off, Kenny, who is apparently more awake than one would guess, intones, "If your coffee-fetching boyfriend gets between me and my triple stuffed omelette, I will choke you out."

This probably deserved some sort of witty retort, but all I can get out are some undignified squawks and a, "Shut up, Kenny."

Then, a moment later: "He's not my boyfriend. At all. We don't even know each other."

Finally: "How the fuck does one triple stuff an omelette?"

He gives a dirty look and says, "I am not the chef," before going back to non-sleep.

Kyle and Stan try to drag me into their conversation, but halfway between asleep and boycrazy does not a good conversation partner make. Occasionally I call bullshit (unofficial fact checker, Tweak Tweek) and squeeze in a dick joke. My main gig trying to incognito watch Craig's every move, because he entertains my eyes and occasionally bursts into dance if he likes the song playing. Also he's bringing me fresh coffee soon.

When he actually does come back around, I'd been in I'm Not Staring Maneuver #17: rearrange the artificial sugar packets by color. I perk up, waiting with bated breath for my delivery and… he walks straight by our table. My sudden dramatic slouch is borderline comical. Stan laughs, "Minute six, the Tweek goes into withdrawal."

I stick my tongue out at him just as Craig shows back up. I suck it back in so fast I nearly choke on my spit.

"Sorry, man, I am tripping today," he says as he leans straight over Kenny to place the coffee on the window sill next to my head. Bless his fucking soul. Profuse and wordy gratitude should be expressed right now, but the most I can I get out is a grateful sigh before I start dumping sugar into the coffee.

"Alright, you guys ready to order? Would you like to hear today's specials?" Craig says with a shimmy of his hips. This man is a strange one.

"Not if you want to keep your spleen," I force out, probably with a stutter and a lisp, but Craig's laugh echoes in the room, getting a glance or two in our direction. My face burns and I try to smile in a flirty, not-at-all creepy way. I probably fail. Kenny slowly turns his head towards me and starts mouthing words at me fiercely. No idea what he was saying, didn't particularly care.

While Kenny grunts out his order, I rehearse mine in my head. _Chocolate pancakes without the chips, chocolate pancakes without the chips, chocolate pancakes without-_

Craig eyes shift to meet mine, he's still smiling, and I force out, "Chocolatechipswithoutthepanc akes." He blinks at me, and roll take two. "Chocolate pancakes without the chips," as slow, clear, and pronounced as I ever get. He nods and writes it down in his little waiter notebook. I don't realize my turn isn't over, that he's talking to me until he's halfway through a sentence.

"- same way, ya know? But nope, too much chocolate gets in the way of trying to enjoy like ten of those things." And I try to pay attention but it's kind of a shock to the system, so I just nod along and try to look pretty and not at all confused.

I never claimed to be a master seducer. Honestly, making eye contact is miracle for me. And by making eye contact I mean shiftily looking up at him and then back down to the table and then up to him to see if he's still looking and then back to the table and back up, at which point he has moved on and it is once again safe to gaze upon his face. A moment later he's rolling off again, shoving his notebook into his back pocket.

His ass is scrawny. He may be human, after all.

"I don't think I've ever heard a waiter tell me he was tripping before," Kyle declares as I burn my tongue on the best diner coffee I've ever come in contact with.

"The man is high off his ass," Kenny comments.

I store this in a little corner of my mind. A part of me wants to deny the accusation, that he's just friendly, high people don't act like that-

But then I remember the closest I've ever gotten to stoner culture is through a television set and Kenny's truck perpetually smells like skunk, so between the two of us his judgment is probably worth more than mine.

My gaze drifts back to Craig, perhaps looking for obvious side effects of cannabis use. A leafy 4:20 tattoo or a Bob Marley CD sticking out of his back pocket, perhaps.

Yeah, no, the internet is a horrible source for information.

Craig has disappeared to wherever it is waiters disappear to when they're not loitering in the serving area. I force myself back into paying attention to the others' conversation. There's not much I can add, it's about some show I don't watch, so the only thing I can add is an occasional nod and the assurance I'm paying attention. Eventually it gets to the point where I object to even starting to watch it, because I am generally distrustful of the viewing quality of anything. It'd probably be better if I smiled politely and said I'd try to catch it sometime. Watch it on Netflix. Download it off somewhere. This is only something that occurs to me in the dead of night when I'm stuck awake pondering why I don't have any friends outside of school and the occasional diner run, if Kyle is feeling generous. An occurrence such as this is usually followed by a dry period, with plenty of faux regret that I didn't go to a gathering I didn't know was happening.

My attention drifts again, and I find Craig's face staring at me from the other side of the kitchen window with a blank, intent look. I twitch and look around, seeing what else his gaze could possibly be locked onto. Nothing popped up. I glance back at him. He was still looking over here, only now he was back to smiling. My back automatically stacks up straight, fingers digging into my sleeves so I don't start pulling at my hair, which is an undeniably unattractive attribute. Heat prickles over my face and I pray that my face isn't heating up as I force a wobbly smile in his direction. He winks before walking away from the gap.

"Stop flirting with the waiter," Kyle says. The army against me has grown.

"I'm not flirting with the waiter!" I hiss back.

"Roaming harlot," tsks Stan, and complete anarchy has been achieved.

"There is no flirting going on here by either party. Not a single flirt," I insist. Kyle snorts. "Seriously! He's just a friendly person…"

"If you convince yourself that_ that's_ just being friendly, you are going to drag many a suitor into your world of denial and suppressed rage, motherfucker," Kenny says mid-yawn.

"Fine, fairy god mother," I huff.

Let it be for a second.

"He's not hitting on me. That shit does not happen in real life," I add. Then I contemplate when, exactly, it was that I confirmed myself to be an actual homosexual, because I sure as hell don't remember admitting to it. I mean, Kyle and Stan got in a spat over poking each other in the butt with pencils earlier. It makes me sad that they get more man-on-man action than I do.

Perhaps I'm not as ambiguous about my wants as I like to think I am.

Craig comes back with their food, which all looks over-sized, greasy, and delicious. "No pancakes for you," he reports before gliding away. I pout after him.

"Haha," Kyle says. I steal a fist full of french fries.

The pancakes and the obligatory pile of bacon are delivered soon after. Chocolate pancakes are a risky business; they tend to taste like baked chocolate powder. Poor American's has mastered the art, though, which makes me very happy. I eat them like I don't need to breathe, and the other three are still stuffing themselves with their meals. The pancakes were an arguably smaller meal (they were only second breakfast, I'm still planning on lunch,) so I can't really bitch about them for taking forever. Rather, I spend the next fifteen minutes attempting to pick french fries. It gets my hand really red, really fast but those eleven extra sticks of fried potato are worth it.

We've all lapsed into silence while eating, so I don't feel bad about letting my attention drift back to Craig. Like it wouldn't have anyway. I'm a bad acquaintance. It's not even like he's doing anything interesting, just moving around but that's enough for me. He makes me tingle. In places. All of them, actually, even that godforsaken area in the center of my chest. It doesn't take much to get me going, ok?

I try to look like I haven't been observing him when he meanders back over to our little group's corner. "No pressure, it's just so when you're done you're not waiting for me," he drawls as he drops off the check. "And don't steal the pen, okay?"

We all glance at the pen. It's cheap, plastic, and pink.

"It's a joke, you know?" Craig continues. "I say, 'Don't steal the pen,' it's that manly as hell piece of shitake mushrooms, and we all laugh joyfully at the irony and give Craig a bigger tip. But last week I tried it on this big biker dude, all decked out with a leather jacket and this massive beard. I was like, 'Hey, don't steal my pen, man!' And you know what he did? He stole my freaking pen!" We laugh politely, me a bit more than was strictly necessary, and he nods like he's just passed on sage knowledge. "But seriously, don't steal my pen. I'm running low." Now it's grave sage knowledge. I wonder if it's showing on my face how hard I'm looking at his.

"We won't steal your pen," Kyle promises. Craig nods and saunters away. I'm only a little bit disappointed that I didn't get any special attention.

_He doesn't like you, Tweek, get a hold of yourself. _

We loiter in the booth a bit longer than was strictly necessary, sluggish from all the food we just stuffed in our faces and desperately wishing for a nap. I probably would have stayed longer in hope that they'd continue to house the stray and entertain me somewhere else, but Cartman has discovered our location and is making his displeasure of being left out of the face stuffing known. Loudly. Shrilly. The manchild weighs over three hundred pounds and his voice hasn't developed past sixth grade. I'd feel sorry for him if he wasn't my least favorite person on this earth.

Seriously. I hate that guy.

"Oh, fuck that shit," I say as I slap the fifteen for my share onto the table. "Tweek out. Get out of the way, Kenneth." He doesn't move, and then tries to kill me when I climb over him. It takes me three hops to free myself from gravity's violent grasp. By this time, Cartman has gotten too close. My skin is already breaking out in hives. I flip off the laughing assholes as I make my exit (and then feel guilty because there's a child staring straight at me). Screw them. May they not be able to free themselves from Cartman's meaty grasp for four score.

They're already arguing by the time I get to the door. I sigh. They're a very stressful group. Without Cartman, they're fine, borderline excellent. But holy fuck, there's always Cartman and I cannot for the life of me comprehend why they put up with him.

Before I can escape completely, Craig's arm shoots out with a Styrofoam cup of what smells like coffee. I attempt to not respond like he's just jumped me with a knife, but I'm not sure how well that goes over. He retracts his arm but his smile doesn't really shrink. "For the road," he says, shaking the cup gently before handing it to me again, slower this time.

My eyes lock onto his. This time, I shall maintain the contact and not fuck it up. His eyes are dopy and lazy, but so fucking blue. I take it jerkily, not quite able to gain control of myself. We stare at each other a moment longer, then I crash and burn under the pressure. I smile quickly and look away before practically sprinting out of the store. My grip on the coffee is poor and it takes a fair amount of shuffling to get out the door. My head moves on its own accord and looks behind me. Craig's watching me go, and I burn at the thought that he may be checking me out. "Fuck," I hiss as I finally make it out into the open.

Which is freezing my nuts off, and now I must walk home because I forfeited Kenny's truck.

"Fucking fish baskets of a whore," I mumble to myself. I move close to the diner, hoping it'll somehow give off some warmth. The coffee rests on a dead flower pot while I yank my gloves and hat out of my backpack. Most people in South Park have gotten into the habit of just never fucking taking off their winter accessories, but they're kind of a new thing for me. I only got into the habit freshmen year after I froze my ears and fingers so bad they felt like they were on fire while they adjusted back to a normal temperature. So now I have gloves so thick they're practically mittens and a beanie that I could pull all the way over my face if I so pleased.

It's only once I pick up the coffee again that I notice the rough digits scratched into the side of my cup with the note:

_Call me. I can clean your vagina. _

_-C_

I nearly dropped the coffee.

Then I hold onto it very, _very_ carefully. I slowly reread the numbers and expression, trying to see if it's some sort of joke. Or possibly a proposal. Who would offer to clean the vagina of a boy he just met as a proposal? … The only kind of person I have a chance with, apparently. A _chance_, oh my god. I consider dropping the cup, the opportunity, running, and never looking back. I'd have to find somewhere else to get my chocolate pancake fix. Would us being together even be _legal_?

Oh, Christ.

I stay glued to my spot, engulfed in flames with a hornet's nest in my chest. Shivers completely unrelated to the cold thump through my body.

When I finally start running home, the cup is tucked firmly against my chest.


End file.
